


Summer Storm

by secretagentfan



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentfan/pseuds/secretagentfan
Summary: Flowers are planted, community service is performed, and Nezumi and Shion both could probably do better at their respective jobs.Written for the no.6 zine: no6zine.tumblr.com





	Summer Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost exactly what I wrote for the zine, but I added back in a few lines I cut for space so if you notice something different...that's why.
> 
> Definitely give the zine a look, there is a companion art piece to this fic and a bunch of other fantastic works.

            The tulip bulb looks like a fragile, wrinkled onion in his hands; Shion has no idea what to do with it. He feels less like he’s trying to knock off some community-service time and more like a mother abandoned on a dark country road while holding a newborn.

            He’d ask the head landscaper, but a week ago the head landscaper chucked his trowel into the ground and drove off— running over about 15 rows of daffodils on his way out. Shion’s pretty sure he quit. Odd thing is, no replacement has arrived. The nature center has tragically descended into anarchy with people planting things in strange, wobbly rows over the tire tracks.

            “How do I plant this, exactly?” Shion asks one of the elderly volunteers. She scowls at him, picks up a box of six-hundred bulbs, and walks away. Shion wipes his hands on his pants. He approaches a group of high school students chucking dirt clumps at each other, figuring they have some sort of idea of soil quality.

            “Would this be the right soil to plant this in?” he asks.

            “Hey it’s the angry city council guy!” one of the high schoolers replies, standing up and elbowing his friends. “Baller!”

            Shion looks at the sky.

            “Quit standing around spacing out! Google it!” A commanding voice shouts at him from across the garden and Shion figures, yes, well, he can do that. He makes his way in the general direction of the voice, distancing himself from the enthusiastic teens to take out his phone. He googles ‘planted tulips’ and tries to copy the pictures as best he can in soil that looks vaguely appropriate.

            He sighs, looking his badly buried bulb. This doesn’t seem right.

            “I can’t believe it,” the voice from earlier says, interrupting Shion’s thoughts by now being significantly closer. “You googled it, and yet _still_ managed to do it wrong.”

            From Shion’s crouched position, the first thing he notices is a pair of black boots.

            “Google is not infallible.” Shion replies to the boots before looking up. The stranger’s eyes are grey and focused on Shion for only a second before they flick angrily around the nature center. Dark hair frames his face, windswept, and Shion’s trowel slips from his fingers. He barely notices.

            “Touché,” the man grumbles. He leans down, and picks the trowel up, twirling it in his hand before unceremoniously slamming it into the ground. He unearths the tulip bulb in a half-second and lays it on top of the soil. “You were smothering it. Tulip bulbs grow above ground, like this.”

            Shion blinks, repentant. “Thank you.”

            The man finally looks at him properly, eyes lighting in recognition. Shion feels the frown form on his face.

            “Oh, it’s you. The convict,” the stranger says.

            “No,” Shion replies, tired. “A misdemeanor does not make me a convict."

            “Tell that to the news, Mr. City Council.”

            “Just the papers. I didn’t make TV,” Shion clarifies. “And my name is Shion.”

            The stranger raises an eyebrow.

            “I’m not ‘Mr. City Council’, or the ‘angry city council guy’. I don’t work for the city council anymore after what happened. I’m just Shion, now.”

            “Well, former-city-council-member-just-Shion, I’m Nezumi, and I’m also the one who’s going to be signing your log sheet, apparently, so get planting.”

            Shion blinks, and Nezumi stands, pointing with his thumb at Shion’s bulb box.

            “You’ve got five-hundred ninety-nine left. Work your way through like I showed you. I have other people to deal with. ”

            A gust of wind perfectly punctuates the apparent new-head-landscaper’s words as he sprints off, leaving Shion to his bulbs. Shion runs a hand through his hair, staring after him, before slowly picking up his trowel.

 

            Over the next couple of weeks, two facts become very clear: The first is that Shion loves to garden. There’s something deeply satisfying about just working with his hands. Digging in the soil, planting, weeding, and watering lacks any complicated subtext. Actions are what they are: there are clear ways to do things correctly, and the results are consistently beautiful. Shion works without complaint for hours, a fact which seems to make Nezumi happy. Well, as happy as Nezumi is willing to show.

            Which leads into the second fact: Nezumi, while unquestionably talented, seems utterly disinterested in properly managing the construction of the nature center. He spends the majority of his time dashing around planting things himself, stopping only to sarcastically criticize a volunteer’s planting while giving inimitably graceful examples. Questions are answered depending on his mood, which seems to fluctuate inconsistently between sincere, and aggressively sarcastic. At any given moment Nezumi is capable of flat-out ignoring a volunteer’s easily-researched question or spinning it into a five-minute monologue over the more specific aspects of floral care.

            Shion finds himself secretly enjoying the challenge. In the city council, Shion grew used to dealing with commanding personalities. However those types often worked in the interest of themselves, rather than the area they were representing. Nezumi’s leadership, on the other hand, seems to scream freedom for the whole, even when no one really wants it. Was he petty? Absolutely—but cruel? No.

            Shion learns to plant peonies, irises, and rows of daffodils. He gets better at understanding Nezumi’s moods, and often questions him as he’s signing his log sheet for the day. What begins as Nezumi side-stepping around Shion’s curious questions buds into reluctant small talk. Progress.

            Nezumi-related information is gathered and categorized, and Shion finds himself thinking their conversations through at night when he used to review legislation. Nezumi doesn’t have a favorite color, likes traveling and mice but hates shellfish; Shion doesn’t know why exactly these facts matter, but they do.

 

            When Nezumi signs Shion’s log sheet after a particularly long day, he points to a pair of gardening gloves folded nicely on a bulb bin.    

            “I don’t need them anymore,” is all he says.

            Shion blinks. “Did you get new ones?”

            Nezumi shakes his head, but gestures at Shion to go pick them up. Shion complies, putting the left glove on first, noticing years of dirt and grass stains on the fingers. He’s still looking at the stains when Nezumi’s fingers overlap his with the right glove.

            “Struggling there, Shion?”

            “I was looking at the stains.” Shion admits. Nezumi snorts, adjusting the gloves on his fingers for a tighter fit. Shion feels warm.

            “They fit well.” Nezumi says, and Shion smiles.

            “They do. Thank you Nezumi.”

            Nezumi rolls his eyes, letting go of Shion’s hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He turns around, his back facing Shion. He seems to mull something over for a moment.

            “They’re clearly still nice enough for you to use. Why give them to me?”

            “I won’t need them anymore,” Nezumi announces.

            “Oh.” Shion says. His voice is quiet. He’s not sure why. “Why?”

            Nezumi turns to face him. His eyes are brighter than Shion’s ever seen them.

            “I bought a plane ticket. I’m going to head to Europe—backpack around. Become something like a flâneur.”

            “A flâneur,” Shion repeats, having never heard the word before. “What is…?”

            “A wanderer.” Nezumi explains, but he doesn’t seem entirely pleased with the translation. “Basically, anyway. It’s a little more _free_ than that. Hard to describe.”

            “When are you leaving?”

            Nezumi taps the edge of his clipboard, looking up. He presses the log sheet into Shion’s hands. “For now let’s say…when this is full, I’ll be gone.”

            Shion looks at the mostly filled-in log sheet. His stomach twists.

 

            The gift marks a change. A friendship. A time limit. Every day Shion spends extra time focusing on the irises, waiting for all the volunteers to leave so he can linger a little longer in the nature center. Nezumi tolerates his lollygagging for up to an hour before placing his signed log sheet on Shion’s head and booting him out.

            They talk about a lot of things, but both Shion’s misdemeanor, and Nezumi’s upcoming departure remain unmentioned. It isn’t long before Shion finds himself on his final day of community service.

            Rather than kick him out after their usual chat, Nezumi mumbles something half-hearted about ‘worthless teenagers’ and starts fixing a row of badly-planted tulips. Shion notices his completed log sheet on the ground next to him, but doesn’t make any move to pick it up. He pulls out a trowel and starts assisting with the tulips.

            They don’t say anything for a while.

            “So why’d you hit him? The other council member.” Nezumi asks, finally. There’s no pity, or anger in his voice. Shion takes a deep breath.

            “He slashed funding for a project of mine by sneaking around and paying off the other council members.”

            “What was the project?”

            “Free lunches in inner city schools.”

            Nezumi sets down his trowel. “You punched a guy over that?”

            “It could promise a child from a low-income household at least one meal a day.”

            “I know,” Nezumi says. His voice is oddly soft. “It’s just surprising someone like you would care about that. It would have been nice to have.”

            “To have…?” Shion repeats dumbly, before it dawns on him. Nezumi only shrugs.

            “How’d it feel?”

            “What?” Shion replies.

            Nezumi’s eyes are bright, and without condemnation. Shion stares.

            “I’ve fantasized about socking politicians in the face since I was 12, you’d better paint this picture for me, Shion.”

            “It hurt. His bone structure is painfully arranged,” he confesses.

            He’s rewarded by Nezumi’s laugh. He still feels guilty, but something else kindles in his stomach at the easy sound—pride? Affection? He shifts closer to Nezumi to study the emotion at the source. Nezumi doesn’t shift away; he nudges Shion with his shoulder. Shion nudges back.

            Nezumi opens his mouth to say something but whatever he’s about to say morphs into a startled whale noise crossed with about five different curses. Evidently, the sprinklers are rigged to set off regardless of whether humans still remain in the center and Shion and Nezumi find themselves much colder for it. And wetter. And angrier, in Nezumi’s case.

            “Sprinklers should be set to go off at midnight, that’s how it works! But no the groundskeeper says 8-o’-fucking-clock is the only time to flood the damn place—like no one ever has to stay late to _fix_ anything—shit!”

            Nezumi gestures with one hand, tugging Shion by the wrist through the watery maze. “It’s not even solidly 8 o’clock it’s more like 7:49 which is a completely ridiculous time to do _anything_ …”

            It’s a short jog out of the spray. Shion notices a few potentially drier routes. He decides it’s probably not the best idea to point those out.

            “But no, no one cares even if you’re head landscaper because you weren’t elected you just got the job because the other guy threw a fit and left! I get _why he did_ _now_!”

            Nezumi finishes his rant with theatrical flourish. Shion stifles a laugh in his hand.

            “What.” Nezumi says, and Shion couldn’t be less intimidated. His face is flushed, and he’s a little breathless from all his complaining. Shion’s certain he’s never seen him looking this…honest. Unpracticed. Cute.

            “You’re grinning.”

            “Am I?” Shion says, unable to stop.

            “You enjoyed that,” Nezumi accuses, stepping closer.

            "I did,” Shion admits. He’s soaked and dripping, but for some reason he doesn’t feel cold at all. “It’s invigorating.”

            “Invigorating,” Nezumi repeats, slowly.

            “Yes. I’m alive. No, we’re both alive. I feel ali—”

            Nezumi kisses him. It almost pushes both of them into the water, but Shion’s too busy kissing him back to care. It’s wet and heated and confused; Shion’s hands grip Nezumi’s forearms to keep from falling over, noting that Nezumi’s skin is still warm even though it’s slick from the water. Nezumi’s fingers tangle in his damp hair and the sprinklers chitter around them like a summer storm.

            They break apart simultaneously, looking at each other. Breathing.

            “What—“ Nezumi begins, but has to pause for air. “—the hell Shion.”

            His hands have migrated to Shion’s back. Shion finds his own pressed against Nezumi’s chest. He can feel his heart thumping against his hand, a speedy, intimate rhythm.

            “Huh?” Shion counters, intelligently. Nezumi lets him go, pulling away.

            “‘Alive?’’” he quotes, slumping down. “That’s the word you chose? Who talks like that?”

            “I think it fit for the circumstance.” Shion sits next to him. He touches his lips: lips that were against Nezumi’s. He feels his smile. “You kissed me.”

            “I kissed you.” Nezumi repeats, like it’s something new. Shion looks at him, lowering his hand from his lips to brush some hair out of his face. Nezumi’s hand overlaps his. For a moment, they don’t say anything. Then, Nezumi sighs.

            “This complicates things,” he says.

            Shion nods. He looks at the log sheet Nezumi rescued, it’s damp and full, but otherwise unharmed. Nezumi’s thumb lightly rubs circles on Shion’s palm, and Shion knows how this will go. Nezumi will leave, and he’ll stay. After that…

            No. Shion thinks. He pulls the pen off the clipboard. He tugs Nezumi’s hand down.

            “Ow, hey watch it I still need that—“

            “Hold still.”

            Nezumi does. Shion writes his number carefully on the back of Nezumi’s palm. Nezumi watches the pen move, quiet and still. When Shion’s done, Nezumi looks at him.

            “I’m going to Europe,” he says.

            “Then call me from Europe.” Shion replies.

            Nezumi stares. Shion swallows.

            “I like you,” he admits. “I like how you think, and talk, and carry yourself. I want to try, even if it means we’re different countries for a while. I think we’re worth that.”

            Nezumi shakes his head like he can’t quite believe the nonsense that’s coming out of Shion’s mouth, but he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he seems at a loss for words. Cute, Shion thinks.

            “Hell of a line…” he mumbles, and Shion only nods.

            After a moment Nezumi pulls his hand from Shion’s. He takes out his phone, and types. Shion’s phone beeps with a text. It’s a simple one:

_Reunion will come._

            Shion smiles.


End file.
